The Case Of The Death Book: A Zeblon Jack Mystery Book 1

by Michael Pickford

  They were able to spare the upper part of my leg after my accident. That made it possible for me to wear a prosthetic that with practice and determination enabled me to walk in such a way that no one could detect half my leg was gone. But walking on ice was still a challenge, and I had to be careful of where and how I stepped.

  I opened the old wooden door at the entrance of the building. The sound of an old-fashioned bell rang in my ears. It was like I had stepped a full century into the past. All four walls of the large building were covered from floor to ceiling with hundreds of different types of clocks—most of them very old. I think they could probably have added vintage clock collectors to their sign.

  I looked around and didn’t see anyone. I called out a couple of times—no response. So, I wandered around and inspected some of the old-time relics.

  A strange old clock like I had never seen before caught my attention. The face spiraled out from the center, and the time indicators wound out into a large circle and finally to the outer edge of the frame. I could tell what time the clock indicated, but I couldn’t figure out how the seconds worked.

  “That’s an old fractal spiral timepiece. Isn’t she a beauty? I don’t see too many of them anymore, but they’re an architectural wonder. Their beauty is both unique and magnificent. I have twenty-two of them in my shop.”

  I turned to my left and saw the source of the voice speaking to me. The man was about five feet, four inches tall. His face was round and red. His otherwise bald head had wild sprouts of white hair attached to the side, and they spiraled out about three inches from his scalp into a disheveled bush. His voice reminded me of a mixture between a flute and a bassoon if that makes any sense. He wore an old-fashioned frumpy brown suit accompanied by a dreary bow tie. Small wire-framed glasses hung from the tip of his nose.

  “Meriwether Jack is the name,” the man continued. “You must be the young man Clint sent over to meet with my grandson about the apartment.”

  “Clint?” I asked confused.

  “Why yes, Clint Walker. I’m sorry. Maybe I was mistaken. In that case, can I interest you in an antique time treasure that you’ve never seen the likes of? I’ve got one right over here that will both bedazzle and bewilder you…”

  The small man turned and walked toward the back wall as he droned on about what he seemed to deem the most precious inventions known to man—Clocks. He was a small stubbly man, yet he moved swiftly and almost effortlessly.

  “Oh, you mean Mr. Walker, my next-door neighbor,” I said to his back.

  Mr. Jack spun around and said, “So, you are the young man—Samuel, I believe it is. Samuel Hickson.”

  “Guilty,” I said. “Is your grandson here? I’m pressed for time. I understood I was supposed to meet him here around this time.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, he’s here. He’s in the back working. Come on. I’ll lead you to him.”

  I followed the man with my interest piqued. Being surrounded by old-world clocks and dusty wooden floors in the presence of a man who looked like he just stepped out of a novel set in nineteenth-century London left me with a strange sense that unknown and mysterious days were ahead of me. Boy was I ever right about that.

  A text came through on my phone. I looked down and saw a message from Lindsey. The police had arrested Clay Brown for the murder of Professor Joelson. Clay Brown? Our star quarterback? Really?

  Five

  I FOLLOWED MR. MERIWETHER Jack through an oversized old-fashioned wooden door and up two rickety steps into a large platformed room. The ceilings were high like in the main room out front, and there was one oversized window at the top of the back wall. Or was it two windows? I didn’t know, but it ran up to the ceiling and into the ceiling itself forming somewhat of a skylight. The sun wasn’t shining, but looking up at the window, I could still see a thin haze of dust in the air inside the cavernous room.

  Didn’t these people know the world had graduated to the twenty-first century?

  Old clocks and clock parts were stacked up along all four walls of the large room. There were several old wooden oblong tables scattered throughout the room in various places cluttered with dusty-looking cogs, wheels, and various other odds-and-ends.

  There was an old bookshelf positioned in a strange place. It was tall, wide, and full of worn books about clock making and clock reparation. It wasn’t even against a wall. Two long wires ran from the ceiling and were attached to the top of the bookshelf to support it and prevent it from crashing to the ground.

  One of the tables was sitting catty-cornered near the point where the two walls met in the back right-hand corner of the room. A young man was sitting on a high stool at the table with his back to us. He was working away feverishly on an old clock face.

  I couldn’t tell much about the young man from my viewpoint, but I could see his hair was dark brown, shoulder-length, and somewhat wavy. He was wearing a dark brown corduroy blazer, blue jeans, and what appeared to be black dress shoes. I later learned they were penny loafers.

  “There he is. My grandson,” the older man said in his strange-toned voice. “He just sits around making faces all day. Why don’t you see if you can give him a hand for a second,” Mr. Jack added as he walked away cackling at the lame clock puns he’d just tortured me with.

  I wasn’t sure what to do or say after Mr. Jack left. I stood there like a shy school-boy waiting for his sweetheart to enter the classroom and take notice of him.

  Knowing I didn’t have a lot of time, I inched slowly toward the table and said, “Zeb, I’m here to talk to you about—”

  “Zeblon,” came a surprisingly refined and confident voice from the stool.

  “What’s that?” I said a bit stunned. “Did you say Zeblon?”

  “Yes,” he said. He spun around on his stool and surveyed me from head to toe as if he was looking over a used vehicle on a cheap gravel-covered car lot. I was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable when his eyes finally fell on my face.

  He said, “The name is Zeblon. Don’t forget it. I don’t live my life halfway, and I don’t expect to be called by half a name.”

  He turned around and went back to work.

  I decided to turn and leave. I had a busy academic life with no time to deal with the impertinence of some antiquated teen who evidently deemed it acceptable to speak down to someone older than himself on the first meeting—or at any time for that matter.

  I spun around to leave, and my eyes were caught by a large enclave on the same wall as the door. I didn’t notice it when I entered the room.

  Overcome with curiosity, I walked over and looked inside the enclave. It was a somewhat large enclosure and inside was a tower standing about nine feet tall. It rose up from the floor into the shape of a Christmas tree and was made wholly of old smaller-sized clocks that had been either welded or glued together.

  The smooth, refined voice spoke again from behind me, “Beautiful isn’t it?”

  “That’s not exactly the word that comes to mind,” I said as I looked at the time some of the clocks indicated. Each one had a different time with each being exactly one minute off from the one next to it. A tin sign hung across the center of the structure with some words scratched into it. It said, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU? – CLOCK.

  Did these people major in bad puns?

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s a mountain of time. Can’t you see that?" Zeblon said as if it should be obvious to anyone who cared to look at the monstrosity. "I’m thinking about calling it Mount Timemore.”

  “Mount Timemore?” I said dubiously. “Is there some sort of practical purpose to it?”

  “Of course.” The young man said with irritated energy. “I never do anything that’s impractical.”

  He stopped without further explanation and removed the tin sign from the triangular clock mountain.

  He tossed the sign into a corner and said, “My grandfather has a weird sense of humor.”

  I couldn’t have cared
less what purpose the monstrosity was supposed to serve. I was just anxious to get on with the purpose of my visit.

  I said, “I understand you’re looking to share an apartment with someone. It so happens I’m also looking, and my neighbor said I should talk to you.”

  “Ah, Mr. Walker, of course. He’s an old family friend. I represented him during his most recent divorce. That was a nasty business. I suspect he would've lost everything he had if it hadn’t been for my brilliant litigation skills.”

  Zeblon had some virtues about him, but I couldn’t detect them yet. Humility wasn’t one of them.

  “Represented him?” I asked confused.

  “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, let’s go across the street and grab a brewsky and discuss our living arrangements.”

  “I don’t drink, and frankly, if you do, we don’t have anything to discuss. I’m already sharing a small house with three students who are inconsiderate party animals, and that’s exactly what I’m trying to escape. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I’ll let myself out.”

  I spun around to leave when Zeblon said, “Is beer brewed?”

  I stopped and turned to face him again with a don’t-you-know-anything expression on my face. “Of course, it’s brewed—”

  “What else is brewed?” he barked impatiently.

  “Well, I don’t know,” I stammered.

  He caught me off guard. It was such a strange conversation. What in the world was I doing there?

  “Is tea brewed?” he asked. “What about coffee? Isn’t it brewed?”

  “Yes, of course, they are. What are you getting at?”

  “Coffee.” He said. “I love coffee more than any alcoholic loves his beer. Coffee is my brewsky. Now, would you care to join me for a cup?”

  I looked down at my watch. I still had less than two hours before my next class, and I’d made the treacherous trip out there anyway. I decided to go ahead and see where it might lead.

  “Sure, let’s go have a cup of coffee.”

  “Wonderful. Let me grab my coat. It’s freezing out there.”

  Zeblon turned and walked back toward the table and grabbed a wool overcoat from a wooden hat tree standing against the wall between two stacks of old clock gears.

  He walked swiftly toward the old wooden door, “Okay, let’s head out Sam.”

  “It’s Samuel,” I said irritably.

  “Oh? Are you sure? Mr. Walker told me your name was Sam. I’m sure of it.”

  “He also told me your name was Zeb. He was wrong on both counts. My name is Samuel. And don’t you forget it.”

  Zeblon smiled knowingly, turned, and then stepped through the door. “We’re going to get along just fine…Samuel.”

  Six

  I FOLLOWED ZEBLON THROUGH the front door and out into the frigid air. We walked past my car and across the street to the old general store.

  The two older men tipped their hats, and one of them drawled, “Mornin’, Zeblon.”

  Zeblon Jack was thin but stout. He walked with his head up and with a confident gait. He was slightly taller than me which would put him at around six foot one. I’m right at six feet. His nose wasn’t long, but it was thin, and his eyes sat close together above its bridge. One of his eyes was light blue, and the other was as dark as charcoal. It wasn’t done with contact lenses as I had originally thought. He was born that way.

  We entered the old general store, and Zeblon led me to an area off to the left and into a room with a handful of old café-style tables.

  The tip of my nose felt frostbitten, and my cheeks were doubtless flushed and chapped, but the pleasing array of unique scents only old-fashioned Tennessee cooking could produce warmed me instantly.

  I followed Zeblon to a booth in the corner next to a window. A waitress promptly appeared with menus. She put them away at the wave of Zeblon’s hand.

  “Just two coffees please, Martha,” he said casually.

  Zeblon drank his coffee black. I preferred cream and sugar. We got settled in with our coffee, and Zeblon said, “So, do you have any questions for me?”

  “Any questions?” I said.

  “Yes, if we’re going to share an apartment, I would assume you’d like to know something about me. For all you know, I could be a serial killer.”

  “If you were a serial killer, I don’t suppose you’d tell me as much if I were to ask such a question.”

  Zeblon chuckled, “I might.”

  “Okay, are you a serial killer?” We both laughed. He didn’t answer, but the answer was understood. At least, I’d hoped it was.

  I sipped my coffee, “Okay, I have a question for you.”

  “Fire away.”

  “You said earlier you represented Mr. Walker during his last divorce. What did you mean by that?”

  “I represented him in a court of law, naturally,” Zeblon said pompously.

  I looked at him out of the corner of my eyes, “How old are you, exactly?”

  “I turned eighteen last year. My birthday’s in June.”

  “But aren’t there specific stipulations one must meet before he can represent someone other than himself in court?”

  “In Tennessee, yes. One must finish law school and pass the bar exam.”

  “How did you get around all that?” I asked dubiously.

  Zeblon shrugged his shoulders and reached for his coffee, “I didn’t.”

  “You’re telling me at eighteen years old you’ve been to law school and have passed the bar examination.”

  “Exactly!”

  I glanced at him sideways through slanted eyes, “Come on now. How is that possible?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of a child prodigy?” Zeblon asked.

  “Of course I have, but I can’t say I’ve ever met one.”

  “Well, now you have.”

  Zeblon’s ego was so overwhelming he had to be telling the truth.

  “So, you’re a lawyer?” I asked with a chuckle.

  “The best in Middle Tennessee.”

  “Why does the best lawyer in Middle Tennessee need to share an apartment with a broken-down college student?”

  “Well, not too many people know I’m the best yet, but they’ll know soon enough with your help.”

  “With my help? How in the world could I help you become the best lawyer in Middle Tennessee?”

  “You won’t. I’m already the best lawyer in Middle Tennessee. Remember? You’ll simply help me make others discover that fact.”

  Zeblon was turning out to be a confusing person. That’s just what I needed. I wasn’t interested in hearing about his plan for me to help him catapult himself to top-notch lawyer status. I just wanted a quiet and tidy roommate. I wanted to be able to concentrate on my studies.

  I was sitting in the middle of nowhere on a frozen Tennessee day having coffee with an arrogant eighteen-year-old boy who thought he was a teenage Perry Mason. What a day!

  A text came through on my phone. I glanced down at it.

  “What is it?” Zeblon asked.

  “It’s my business,” I said. “Is it essential for us to know everything about each other’s private affairs before we share an apartment?”

  Zeblon sat quietly, sipped his coffee, and stared at me with those curious mismatched eyes.

  “Okay, fine. It’s from a friend of mine at the college. One of my professors was murdered last night. Clay Brown, our star quarterback, was arrested for the murder. I’ve been texting back and forth with my friend about the matter.”

  “Oh, do you think he did it?”

  “Not at all. I know Clay. We’ve been running together regularly, and we've forged somewhat of a friendship. He’s not the murdering kind. Besides, he’d certainly have no reason to murder Professor Joelson.”

  “Well, if he’s your friend, he’s my friend. I’ll represent him.”

  “You!” I almost choked on my coffee.

  Zeblon was pretty confident in his abilities as a lawyer, but he hadn’t sold me on t
hem yet.

  “This is a serious matter. Clay may lose everything he’s worked for. He needs somebody with experience and expertise in these matters. The trouble is he comes from a very poor family. His college is being paid for by scholarships because he’s such a gifted athlete. I do wonder how he’ll be able to afford decent counsel though. Could you suggest somebody?”

  “Yes. Me. And I’ll do it just for the adventure. Free of charge. I’ll guarantee Clay’s full exoneration.”

  “You certainly seem to think you’re pretty clever,” I said. “Is there any proof of it other than your representing Mr. Walker in his fifth marital failure?”

  “You want a demonstration of my cleverness?”

  I shook my head and said in a noncommittal way, “Sure, let’s have a demonstration.”

  “Okay, how would you like me to demonstrate it?”

  “You’re the boy genius. You figure it out,” I said getting bored but curious as to what this wealthy young antiquated clock repairman might conjure up. If nothing else, it would be entertaining. It was unlikely he’d convince me to suggest him to Clay for legal representation though.

  “Okay, let me tell you about your morning,” he began.

  "This should be interesting," I thought.

  We accepted coffee refills from Martha, and once she left us, Zeblon began with his description of my morning.

  “You were in a rush this morning to get to your first class. You were running late. The house was a mess, and you couldn’t find your overcoat. After a fruitless search, you decided to throw on a sweater that belongs to one of your housemates. You spoke to your neighbor Mr. Walker for a few minutes while he cleaned off your windshield. Upon arriving at the school, you literally bumped into a lovely young lady who told you your class had been canceled because somebody murdered your professor.”

  After he finished, I sat with my mouth hanging wide open. “What?”

  Seven

  I LOOKED OUTSIDE THE window. It had gotten colder outside, and the clouds were a darker gray than they were earlier. It was snowing again.